イングリッド・マイケルソンのインスタグラム(ingridmichaelson) - 9月18日 05時28分

I can't begin to imagine any other childhood than the magical one I had. My father always banging away at the piano or conducting to symphonies in the living room or cooking bizarre recipes he read about "somewhere". My mother building huge wooden sculptures in the basement that she would put up in our backyard for us to play on before it was moved to wherever it was going to be installed. I still see my father, sitting on a tiny plastic yellow children's chair, reading my brother and I chapter after chapter of some old mystery book of his as we lay in our bunk beds, hanging on every word. And then my mother's turn, cooing and softly singing us to sleep. (Sometimes she would fall asleep with me since I had the bottom bunk). This was every night. Every. Night. We rattled around the huge old Victorian house that my father lived in till last week. Filled with antiques and chairs you couldn't sit on and scientific experiments and art and music music music. I miss my mother and father so much it makes it hard to breath. But I know I was lucky. So lucky to have grown up in that house with those two people who met in Weehawken NJ, moved in together days later (to my mother's 300$/month loft in SoHo) and chose to make my brother and I. Thank you mommy and daddy. I will miss you as long as I have breath in my lungs and a beat in my heart.

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